


Don't Tell Auguste

by Emily_Nicaoidh



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Coffee, Everyone is older than in canon, M/M, lying, not a coffee shop au, referenced CSA, there's just a lot of coffee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-09 23:03:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18647914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emily_Nicaoidh/pseuds/Emily_Nicaoidh
Summary: "The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”William FaulknerLaurent receives a sext from the last person he ever wanted to get a sext from (okay, one of the last people), and learns something he never wanted to know. He can't tell Auguste; he can't tell anyone. He was supposed to spend winter break from law school with Auguste - but if he does, will Auguste find out what Laurent knows?He can't risk it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In this AU, Auguste and Damen are in their mid 30's, Laurent mid 20's, and Nicaise late teens. Laurent's uncle is out of the picture and in prison, (hence not even listed as a character!) and there is no explicit (or even mature-rated) discussion of his abuse in this fic.
> 
> Thank you to Nini and Yanah from discord for beta reading this!

"You’re going out without me?” Auguste couldn’t tell if the pout in Nicaise’s voice was genuine or affected.

 

“Did you suddenly age two years since I left for work this morning? I’m meeting Damen for a drink, Nick. At a bar. Where they check ID. You are nineteen,” Auguste said.

 

Grumbling, from the other side of the sofa. Nicaise stuck his (bare, cold) feet in Auguste’s lap.

 

“You never let me come with you when you meet Damen,” Nicaise said, but Auguste could hear that he had already lost interest.

 

“We’ll go out tomorrow night, just the two of us,” Auguste promised.

 

“Hmm.”

 

“Now let me up, I was supposed to leave twenty minutes ago,” Auguste said.

 

— —

 

 

“Hey, sorry I’m late.” Auguste pulled out the bar stool next to Damen’s and sat down heavily. “Hearing went long.”

 

“No worries, bro,” Damen said.

 

Auguste moved to wave over the bartender, but Damen must have already signalled to him because he set down a pair of beers in front of them before Auguste could order.

 

“You always get the same thing anyway,” Damen said, raising his glass.

 

Auguste always became more talkative a few drinks in. At first Damen had thought that maybe Auguste didn’t really want to be hanging out with him, since when they first got to the bar Auguste was pretty reserved and didn’t seem to want to talk much.

 

“Laurent is refusing to come home for Christmas,” Auguste said, draining his fifth beer and slamming the glass down on the bar.

 

“Did he say why?” Damen asked, taking a much smaller sip of his own beer. He usually kept pace with Auguste as long as Auguste was drinking, but something in Auguste’s attitude tonight warned Damen that it would be a pretty bad idea to try to keep up with Auguste tonight.

 

“No,” Auguste said, and it was a testament to how low his tolerance was that the disgust he would normally have kept hidden was plain in his voice. “He told me to fuck off and mind my own business.”

 

“Huh,” Damen said. “Did you try, uh, fucking off and minding your own business?” He knew he was one of very few people who could get away with speaking so bluntly to Auguste, and this seemed like the time to take advantage of it.

 

“He hung up on me after that,” Auguste admitted. “I was hoping you’d tell me what to say when I call him back.”

 

“Dunno, it doesn’t sound like you can,” Damen replied. He frowned. “He’s never done this before, has he? I thought he always went to your place for Christmas.”

 

“Yeah, he does,” Auguste said. Damen realized that Auguste was now halfway through a beer that he did not remember him getting. He reached for his own glass and found it missing, stolen by Auguste, then turned to him, amused.

 

“This is really getting to you,” he said.

 

“It’s childish and stupid! Why is this year any different? We have Traditions!” Damen could hear the capital letter at the beginning of the last word.

 

“Well, is there anything different about this year?” Damen asked. “Is he busier with work, or something?”

 

“He doesn’t have an internship this semester,” Auguste said flatly. “I mean god, I know as well as anyone third year of law school is hard but this is ridiculous. A week off won’t kill him.”

Damen took a grateful sip from the water glass the bartender had slid over to him.

 

“I don’t know what to do, Damen. I want him to come home, but—” When Auguste drank, he started off taciturn, then rapidly became overly chatty, and by the time he veered into plaintive and earnest, Damen knew to cut him off.

 

“Well, you’re not calling him tonight,” Damen said firmly, taking the glass out of Auguste’s hand.

 

“No, I need to,” Auguste protested. “You need to help me convince him.”

 

 

“Gus, let’s get you home,” Damen said. “You’re way drunker than you think you are, I promise. You don’t want to drunk dial Laurent.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, and holding it below the table, where hopefully Auguste could not see, ordered an Uber.

 

After that it was easy to keep Auguste distracted for a few minutes while they waited for the car to arrive. It didn’t seem worth it to Damen to protest when Auguste wanted to order another drink, since he knew he’d have him safe in his bed (and with his phone out of reach and set to do not disturb mode so no notifications could come up that might remind him of his ill-advised desire to call Laurent) sleeping whatever this was off.

 

Auguste was chatty when he drank, sure. But this was something else entirely. This was almost—confessional, Damen thought. It made him uneasy. He didn’t want to know Auguste’s secrets.

 

The driver eyed them suspiciously, but Damen must have seemed reassuringly sober enough that he let them in the car. Auguste fell asleep on the way, his head drooping on to Damen’s shoulder. Damen had to smile at that; as miserable as the trial of Auguste’s uncle had been, as gut-wrenchingly awful as some of the evidence they had to look at was and some of the depositions they had to read were, there had been times during the lead up to it when they had stayed up late going through files, police reports, and piles of evidence, and Auguste had crashed from sheer exhaustion in this exact same position more than a few times.

 

At least, until they got to Laurent’s evidence. Then Auguste had worked in a frenzy, and Damen had been tempted to steal a few of his hairs for a drug test to make sure he wasn’t on speed. But he had waffled on the decision for a week, and then the court date was upon them, and perversely, given the nature of the testimonies, Auguste had immediately calmed down and was again the unflappable man Damen remembered rooming with during law school.

 

Because of who the defendant was, and how inexperienced the two lawyers representing the plaintiffs were, the trial ended up being fairly high-profile, and the media consensus was that the pair of them had been terrifying. The court stenographer was rumoured to have developed some kind of crush on Auguste, because some of the sketches of the trial that emerged in the early newspaper articles showed Auguste, standing on the courtroom floor in a beam of sunlight from a high window that may not actually have existed, his blond hair lit like a halo around him. He looked like an avenging angel. Fan art began to circulate of him holding a flaming sword in place of his folder of notes.

 

Midway through the month-long trial someone leaked that the jury had a betting pool going on who would be able to get Damen into bed first once the trial was over; the defence made indignant noises about replacing the members of the jury who were generally believed to have the best chances.Damen didn’t remember if they were replaced or not. He had no plans to sleep within members of the jury. He knew already at the time that when the trial was over he wanted to get roaring drunk and never see anyone related to the case ever again.

 

Except Auguste, of course, and that meant Laurent too, though sometimes Damen wished it didn’t.

 

 

Rousing Auguste with difficulty when they pulled up to his building, Damen realized there was no way that Auguste would make it into the elevator and up to his flat under his own power.

 

Auguste was muttering something about “can’t let Lolo find out,” and “it might be okay if you know, though. Not sure. I should have asked him. Damen. Daaaamen. Damn, man. I can reach my own keys,” Auguste said, in a surprising burst of coherency.

 

“Great,” Damen said, amused, and removed his hand from Auguste’s jacket pocket.

 

Auguste pulled out his wallet, brandishing it theatrically before he slapped it against the sensor beside the door, then promptly dropped it.

 

“Whoops!”

 

Damen rolled his eyes, retrieved the wallet, and hauled Auguste through the sliding glass doors.

 

Auguste’s flat was in one of those new condominium buildings that had once been a factory, or maybe a school, a few hundred years ago, and its restored brick facade was now partially supported by glass and steel beams. Auguste had most of the top floor, and Damen propelled him into the elevator, where Auguste leaned heavily against the mirrored walls.

 

The hallway was short, and Damen slapped Auguste’s wallet against the card reader below the door handle, then pushed Auguste into his flat. Damen had been here before; during the trial, back when Damen still had roommates but Auguste did not, they had spent most of their late nights in this living room, getting progressively drunker as they forced themselves through reading the piles of things they knew, even as they were reading them, that they would never be able to forget. A lamp Damen didn’t remember seeing before was on in the corner of the room. It wasn’t like Auguste to leave a light on.

 

The living room was clean, now - the piles of pale manila folders on the coffee table, floor, and side table were gone, but Damen could still see an echo of them in the corners of his eyes.

 

He shook his head. It was over; he needed to get Auguste to bed before he collapsed on the floor.

 

A short hallway lead from the living room to Auguste’s bedroom, with doors on either side for the linen closet, guest room, and guest bathroom. Auguste’s door stood slightly open, and Damen nudged it the rest of the way open with his foot and steered Auguste towards the bed. He didn’t bother turning the light on; the light of the lamp from the living room was enough to see by. He stumbled on the rug a little, and Damen aimed him at the bed and let gravity take over. He pulled off Auguste’s shoes and draped the corner of the duvet over him.

 

Setting Auguste’s wallet on the bedside table, Damen pulled the bedroom door most of the way closed and headed out, deciding to walk the few blocks back to his own townhouse rather than call for a car. It had rained a bit, earlier, but the night had cleared up and the almost-full moon was bright.

 

 

 

Damen pulled his keys from his pocket, squinting. There seemed to be someone standing on his porch, but the light was too dim for him to make out their features. The figure was wearing a backpack, and a duffel bag was at their feet. As he stepped closer, the porch light reflected off of pale blond hair.

 

“Don’t tell Auguste,” a familiar voice said, defensive.

 

“Oh, shit.” Damen sighed and unlocked the door.

 

 

— —

 

 

Auguste woke to a pair of brown eyes staring into his. “Oh, shit.” Auguste groaned and hauled himself into a sitting position.

 

“I made sure he didn’t see me, last night,” Nicaise said. “It’s ok.”

 

It wasn’t ok. Auguste could see it in the way Nicaise twisted his hands, the way he was standing beside the bed, as if he wasn’t sure he’d be welcome.

 

“Damen brought me home?” Auguste was pretty sure it had to have been Damen, but he needed to know. He had started the night off by drinking with Damen, he knew that much. But his memory got hazy around his fifth beer. He knew he was a lightweight, but…last night it has been hard to stop.

 

“Damen,” Nicaise confirmed. “I hid in the guest room closet. He definitely didn’t see me.”

 

“Good,” Auguste said, and then immediately regretted it. “I mean…”

 

“I didn’t want him to see me either,” Nicaise admitted. “I’m not…I don’t want to think about him.”

 

“Then don’t,” Auguste said, pulling Nicaise down beside him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! Warnings for this chapter include: description of a picture of a hand on a dick and brief mention of suicidal thoughts, as well as description of and anxiety attack.

Damen awoke to the smell of coffee brewing. Details of the past night were a little fuzzy, until he stumbled down the stairs, barefoot in a pair of dress pants and buttoning a shirt, to see Laurent de Vere sitting at his kitchen island, eating a pastry out of a box.

 

“Good morning, Laurent,” Damen said, glancing at the coffee maker and finding it surprisingly empty.

 

“I did a pour-over. Only makes one cup,” Laurent said. Damen sighed.

 

“Are you going to tell me why you’re here instead of at Auguste’s?” Damen asked.

 

“No,” Laurent said, licking some pastry sugar off of his hand.

 

“Great. Well, I’m going to work. Spare key’s on the microwave,” Damen said.

 

— —

 

Laurent spent most of the day in Damen’s house, alternating between pacing irritably and throwing himself onto the sofa to read one of the books he had brought with him. The guest room he was staying in was on the second floor, opposite Damen’s room, and more than once Laurent found himself hesitating on its threshold, wondering if there was any sign that he could find inside that room that would tell him if Damen knew already or not.

 

About his brother, and about Nicaise.

 

Thinking about it made Laurent feel like he might throw up; when he had first gotten the texts he actually had. It wasn’t uncommon for him to get text messages meant for Auguste; their numbers different by only the final digit. Most of the time it was boring (albeit confidential) things from Auguste’s clients that Laurent couldn’t care less about. 

 

One time it hadn’t been.

 

_I can’t stop thinking about last night_ , the text message had said. Laurent had thrown his phone down on his dorm room bed and groaned, assuming it had to be from another of Auguste’s one night stands.

 

The phone had buzzed a second time and rolling his eyes, Laurent had picked it up. The phone unlocked when he looked at it, and Laurent had to stare at the picture for a moment before he understood what he was seeing.

 

It was a hand, wrapped around a dick. It was impossible to mistake whose hand it was, because the de Vere family crest was stamped on a ring on the index finger of that hand. There were only two of those rings in the world anymore, and one was on Lauren’t hand. The other, Auguste’s.Right above the ring was the distinctive, spiral scar that Auguste had from the time he accidentally cut his finger in art class in elementary school, removing any remaining possibility for doubt as to whose hand it was.

 

Before Laurent could drop the phone, another picture had come through. A young man’s face, presumably the young man whose dick was in Auguste’s hand, wearing an expression of ecstasy. Laurent knew that face, too, though it had been years since he had seen him, and his features had sharpened a little as he had aged. The small amount of stubble on his chin certainly had not been there when Nick had testified at Laurent’s uncle’s trial.

 

At first Laurent hadn’t known what to do with the messages. He had deleted them immediately, revulsion rising his throat. But what next? Would Nick text him more, not realizing his mistake? In the end, Laurent had replied “wrong number” and then blocked Nick’s number from his phone.

 

That had been back in late September. He’d thrown himself into his studies, ignored two thirds of Auguste’s calls, lest something in Laurent’s voice betray what he knew, and resolutely pushed away all thoughts of the looming holiday break as long as possible.

 

Then Auguste had called him, demanding that he come home, and something in his voice sounded so much like their uncle that Laurent had sworn at him and said he wasn’t coming home.

 

Disgusted with himself, he’d thrown his phone down. The plan had been to go home, not let Auguste know what he knew, and look for evidence. Look for something that would prove that Auguste wasn’t like his uncle. But now it was too late for that, and he was practically trapped at Damen’s where there would be no evidence of anything at all, because why would Auguste be meeting his lover at Damen’s place?

 

But at least he didn’t have to see Auguste, Laurent reasoned. He wasn’t sure he would have been able to pull it off anyway, a deception of that magnitude against Auguste? He probably would have said it the moment he’d walked in the door— Oh hi Auguste, good to see you, by the way why are you fucking a fifteen year old? And then he would have been out on his ass in the snow and Auguste would know and he’d be no closer to proof of anything.

 

No, this was probably better. Marginally.

 

 

Around noon, Laurent started to get a headache, so he made another pour over coffee with the beans he had brought, not trusting Damen to have anything other than pre-ground ones that tasted of sawdust. He found some things for sandwiches in Damen’s fridge, and, figuring the kitchen was just as good a place as the living room to have a meltdown, sat on one of the bar stools to eat.

 

The same thoughts cycled through his head, racing around in a circle.

 

Nick is sending nudes to someone.

 

People send me texts meant for Auguste all the time because our numbers are so close.

 

Nick probably meant those texts for Auguste.

 

Auguste is fucking a fifteen year old.

 

Auguste is just like him.

 

If Auguste is like him, what if I am too and don’t know it yet?

 

_What if_. Laurent knew exactly what he would do, _if_. He would throw himself off the nearest tall building.

 

Laurent wasn’t sure how long he sat at the kitchen bar, but eventually it occurred to him to take his pulse. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, opened up the timer app, and put his first two fingers to his jugular. 100 beats per minute. High for him, but not dangerously so. The coffee probably wasn’t helping with the anxiety situation either. Laurent closed the app and stared at the black screen of his phone. 

 

Don’t have a panic attack in Damen’s kitchen, he thought to himself, giggling a little, though being stern about it had never once actually stopped him from having one.

 

 

 

At some point, the phone on the wall rang. _Why do you still have a landline, anyway, weirdo?_ Laurent thought, as if Damen could hear him or would in any way care about the judgement of his law partner’s younger brother, but he picked up the phone.

 

“What,” Laurent heard himself saying.

 

“Hey, just wanted to check in on you. You doing okay? Bored?” Damen’s voice was just as concerned over the phone as it had been the night before.

 

“Fine.”

 

“You don’t sound fine.” But Damen didn’t sound suspicious, and something about that made Laurent want to tell him, even though it was objectively a terrible idea.

 

“I had a panic attack earlier but I think it’s going away now.”

 

“Is it to do with why you aren’t at Auguste’s place right now?” Dammit. Of course that would be obvious to Damen.

 

“I don’t—maybe.”

 

“I’m coming home early tonight, be there in an hour and a half or so. My girlfriend is coming over—we had plans to make dinner and watch a movie. You can join us if you want, or if you want to go out there’s a spare key on top of the fridge.”

 

“I don’t want to go out.”

 

“That’s alright. Lykaios would probably love to meet you.” Stop being so fucking reasonable for a second Damianos and let me get mad at you,Laurent thought.

 

“I don’t want to meet your latest fucktoy.”

 

“Laurent.” Damen’s voice was disappointed, where Auguste’s would have been reproachful.

 

“I have to go.”

 

“Okay, well, I’ll see you at home later. And be nice to Lykaios. I’ve only been seeing her a few weeks and I don’t want to scare her off.”

 

 

Laurent set the phone back on the receiver and wandered back towards the kitchen bar, and the cooling dregs of his coffee. Damen’s girlfriends almost never lasted longer than a month, which was about the time it took for them to realize that all that lawyer money of his that paid for fancy dinners and dates at the ballet came with long work hours and last-minute cancelled plans. The more Laurent thought about it, the more he wondered why so many of them lasted that long. Maybe his dick was really just that good? Laurent wasn’t sure how good Damen’s dick would have to be to make up for the other things, though. Was there some kind of equation for it? How did one objectively measure how good dick was, anyway? Maybe he should ask Lykaios tonight, preferably when Damen was not in the room.

 

Laurent glanced at his phone - it was ten after five. Sitting through dinner with Damen and his new girlfriend just for the possibility of being able to ask her about Damen’s dick seemed less appealing than going out and getting something to eat alone. Plus, there was that new pho place only a couple blocks down the street…it was in the same direction as Auguste’s apartment, but Auguste wouldn’t be caught dead going into any restaurant where you could get an appetizer for less than fifty dollars. The pho place should be safe, Laurent decided.

 

 

December in Marlas was decidedly warmer than December in Acquitart, where Laurent was studying, and maybe a walk would do him some good. Help clear his head. He pulled on a light jacket and headed out, grabbing the spare key on his way.

 

 

Warmed by a bowl of pho approximately the size of a basketball, Laurent decided to take the long way back to Damen’s townhouse. Shops had put out Christmas lights, or festive ads drawn by someone who wasn’t quite sure what the difference between mistletoe and holly was, and the neighbourhood streets were bright in spite of the early December sunset.

 

As Laurent passed the new French restaurant its bay window lit by twinkling holiday lights caught his eye. Something about…No.

 

Laurent froze. The couple sitting in at the table in the window both leaned in close to the centre of their tables, and light from a winking candle at the centre of the table glanced off of the gold signet ring on his right hand. No.

 

The other man, no, boy would be the right word, Laurent corrected himself, ran a hand through light brown curls that looked intentionally disheveled. He was laughing at something the blond man had said, and reached a hand across the table to take the other man’s hand in his.

 

Laurent stumbled backwards, suddenly frantic that they not see him. He spun on his heel and darted into the nearest alleyway. He could take the long way back to Damen’s townhouse so that he didn’t have to pass by that window again.

 

_How dare he, how fucking dare he_ , Laurent thought, and his anger kept him warm through the walk home.

 

 

—

 

Laurent threw himself down onto the few steps up to Damen’s porch. What was the point of going inside? Lykaios would still be there, and Laurent did not want to talk to her. Or even see her. Really, it would be better if he didn’t know she existed. Who was she anyway? Probably just another gold digger who wanted Damen’s lawyer money. She probably dyed her hair, Laurent thought savagely.

 

The December chill, mild as it was compared to Acquitart, did eventually start to creep through the layers of Laurent’s thin jacket. The concrete was cold underneath him, and he shivered. The porch light was off; Laurent didn’t want to go inside to turn it on and besides, there was something better about sitting in the dark for thoughts like these. Something fitting.

 

After some time there was a noise from the other side of the door, and it opened.

 

“Laurent,” Damen said in surprise. “Why are you out here?”

 

“Dunno,” Laurent lied.

 

“Okay, well, do you want to come in?”

 

Laurent eyed him suspiciously.

 

“Lykaios went home,” Damen said. “You might not have seen her leave since she parked out back and took the side door.”

 

“Okay.” Laurent unfolded his arms from across his knees and stood up.

 

“How long have you been out here?” Damen asked.

 

“Dunno.”

 

“Look, you’re obviously cold. Come inside, I made a pot of decaf,” Damen offered.

 

“Fine.” There was no reason to expect the decaf to be any better than the sawdust-looking preground regular beans Laurent had seen, but Damen seemed determined to get him into the house, and setting a precedent that he could be bribed with coffee wasn’t actually a bad idea.

“Laurent…” Damen hesitated, turning to look at Laurent once he was through the door. “Is there something you want to talk about? Did something happen at school?”

 

Laurent let out a sharp, unamused laugh. “Did something happen at school. God, what am I, fourteen?”

 

He hadn’t meant anything by it, fourteen was just the number that popped into his head, but he saw the blood drain from Damen’s face when he heard it. Stupid. Of course Damen would think about what had happened when Laurent was fourteen. It was probably the only thing Damen thought about when he saw Laurent. It was probably the only thing anyone thought about when they saw Laurent. In every way that shouldn’t matter, he would always be fourteen.

 

 

 

Laurent didn’t feel any more relaxed sitting at the kitchen island, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of overly-milky decaf coffee than he had on the porch. Damen leaned against the counter across from him on folded arms.

 

“I should probably know how to say this better, but…” Damen laughed, but it was hollow. “Did somebody touch you? In a way you didn’t want?”

 

“Fuck you,” Laurent spat back, surprising himself with his vehemence. “I am twenty-four years old, Damianos. If you want to know if somebody raped me you can use words like a grownup.”

 

“Alright,” Damen said calmly. “Laurent, did somebody rape you?” The unsaid again hovered in the air between them.

 

“No.”

 

Damen let out a long breath.

 

“Good,” Damen said eventually. “That’s good.”

 

“That’s your standard of what’s good, is it?” Laurent glared at him.

 

“I mean, I’m glad it’s not that,” Damen said.

 

“Okay. Fine. I’m going to bed,” Laurent said, leaving his coffee on the counter.

 

— —

 

Damen figured some good coffee might go a long way as a peace offering to Laurent. At least, it might go farther than another clumsy, fumbling apology like the one he had stumbled through the previous night. He woke up earlier than he usually would on a Saturday, walked the few blocks to the coffee shop down the street that did those weird brewing methods Laurent liked, and stopped at the pastry shop on his way back.

 

Laurent, either only just waking up or pretending he was just waking up as Damen returned, considering that he was fully dressed, glanced at the results of Damen’s expedition and smiled. It was gone in an instant, but it was there.

 

“Trying to win my affections, I see,” Laurent observed, but he slid onto what was becoming his bar stool and reached for a pastry.

 

“Hardly,” Damen said, passing him a coffee. “More like trying to make up for my sounding like a lawyer, when I should have been more of a friend.”

 

“Friends. Is that what we are?”

 

“I like to think so,” Damen said.

 

“So if I tell you something, it won’t go any farther than this kitchen? I mean, you won’t tell anyone else?”

 

Damen heard the unspoken _You won’t tell Auguste_ in Laurent’s questions.

 

“I won’t tell anyone. Not even Auguste.” Damen tried to sound reassuring.

 

Laurent took a long drink of his coffee.

 

“Okay,” he said, seemingly having come to a decision. “It’s really bad though.”

 

“I can handle it,” Damen promised.

 

“Auguste is…dating someone. I don’t know if that’s the right word. Seeing someone? That he shouldn’t be. Nicaise d’Arles. You probably know him better as John Doe number four,” Laurent said, studying his coffee cup instead of looking at Damen. “From the trial. He’s fifteen, Damen,” Laurent added, and his voice broke a little.

 

Damen took a deep breath. “Okay, well, that’s nowhere near what I thought you would say, but let’s think about this, Laurent.”

 

“What did you think I was going to—“

 

“I do know who Nicaise d’Arles is, thanks. And he’s not fifteen, Laurent,” Damen interrupted. “It’s been four years.”

 

Neither of them had to clarify what it had been four years since.

 

“He’s nineteen now, and in college, and more or less an adult,” Damen continued. “Why do you think he and Auguste are together?”

 

“He sent me a dick pic meant for Auguste,” Laurent said, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

 

“Okay, how do you know it was for Auguste?”

 

Laurent fished in his pocket for his phone.

 

“Oh, no, I don’t want to see it,” Damen said hastily.

 

“Fine. It’s a picture of a dick, with Auguste’s right hand on it. It has that weird scar he has, and he’s wearing our family ring,” Laurent said. “Nobody else has that scar, and only the two of us have that ring. We melted the only other one, after…” He didn’t seem to want to finish.

 

“Right.” Damen’s throat was dry, and he took another swig of coffee. “So what’s the problem?”

 

“What’s the problem? Auguste is fucking a child,” Laurent said, speaking very slowly. “He’s like him.”

 

Laurent didn’t clarify who he meant by him, and Damen didn’t need to ask.

 

Damen sighed. “Have you talked to Auguste about this?”

 

“Do I look stupid?”

 

“Okay, never mind. What’s your plan for winter break, then? You’re just going to hide out here and sulk for two weeks?”

 

Laurent shrugged. “I’m not going to Auguste’s place. I don’t want to see him.”

 

“Even though there might be another explanation for all this, and he might not be dating Nick?”

 

Laurent’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe me.”

 

“No!” Damen said hastily. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, it’s just…wouldn’t it be easier to go talk to Auguste? Find out from him what’s going on?”

 

“You’re right, I should go ask him. Hey Auguste, fucked any fifteen year olds lately? What? Oh, just making conversation!” Laurent rolled his eyes.

 

“I mean, don’t say it like that,” Damen muttered.

 

“No, I am not going to ask Auguste about it,” Laurent said.

 

“I could ask Auguste about it,” Damen offered.

 

“No.”

 

“I don’t know what you want me to do with this. Nick’s an adult, Auguste’s an adult, and they might be having a relationship,” Damen said.

 

“I don’t know!” Laurent folded his arms across his chest. “It’s a thing! You’re supposed to know how to fix things!” He grabbed his coffee cup. “I’m going to the library. Bye.” He threw himself off the bar stool with more force than necessary and headed towards the door, before seeming to remember that his laptop and bag were in the guest room.

 

Damen sighed and took another sip of coffee. A few moments later Laurent returned, now wearing his backpack, and stormed towards the door.

 

“Be safe!” Damen called after him, but the door had already slammed shut.


	3. Chapter 3

Damen had asked Laurent if he wanted him to speak to Auguste, but he was secretly relieved that Laurent had declined. What was he supposed to say? Hey bro, do you happen to be dating one of the child abuse victims we represented in that trial we never talk about who is now a legal adult but whom Laurent seems to think is perpetually a fifteen-year-old?

 

No. It was impossible to talk about it with Auguste, if for no other reason than it was tied up with too many other things that were also impossible to talk about with Auguste.

 

After the trial had concluded, and it was always _the_ trial in Damen’s mind, even though of course there were other trials he had been involved in over the years, there had been some wariness, at first, between himself and Auguste. Not that they were uncertain of their relationship, but that there was the trial between them now, and the both of them wanted desperately to forget what they had seen and read and just as desperately never to talk about it.

 

The first few weeks they had circled one another cautiously, strangers trapped on a desert island, careful not to say anything that could be contentious or could be perceived as causing offence. There had been a lot of “could I borrow your stapler” and “thanks for picking up those files for me from the printer”, which over the slow course of months had gradually thawed until they were back to more or less their former back-slapping collegiality. The black hole of the trial still hovered between them, and both of them studiously ignored it while pretending there was nothing at all to ignore.

 

 

It was almost like those early days again now, at work, except this time (Damen hoped), Auguste didn’t know that he was part of this awkward dance, where Damen could think of nothing besides the one thing he could never bring up whenever he saw Auguste. He spent more time than usual in his office, the door closed, and found reasons not to go to lunch with Auguste as often as they were used to doing. Everything these days, it seemed, reminded him of Auguste, and back then, and the trial.

 

— —

 

Auguste had thrown the folder he was holding down onto the coffee table. “I can’t look at this anymore.”

 

“The sooner we get through these, the sooner that fucker is behind bars.”

 

That had drawn Auguste's attention, and he had looked sharply at Damen.

 

“How did I not notice? How did I not see it, Damen?”

 

“You were away,” Damen had tried. “Look at the timeline. You know it didn’t start until you’d left for college.”

 

“I should have brought him with me,” Auguste had said fiercely.“We had that apartment, he could have lived with us.”

 

“And what? You would have driven him to middle school every day? Picked him up from fencing club practice? Come on, Auguste,” Damen had said. “Do you even remember how we were back then? Middle school starts at like, eight am. Neither of us were ever both awake and sober at eight am.”

 

“Well, I should have known. I should have done something,” Auguste had said vaguely, reaching for his sixth beer of the night and draining it.

 

“You’re doing something now,” Damen had said.

 

Auguste had not answered, and he had not needed to. The unspoken _it’s not enough_ hung in the air between them.

 

“I’m getting another beer,” Damen had said eventually, and headed into the kitchen.

 

— —

 

Auguste noticed, of course. That was inevitable. Damen had avoided thinking about it because he had no idea what he would say when Auguste eventually did notice, and hoped that maybe by the time it happened he would have figured something out.

 

He had not figured anything out, and Auguste noticed within the week.

 

“We’re getting drunk tonight,” Auguste said firmly, leaning against the door of Damen’s office, which he had opened without knocking first.

 

“Uh,” Damen said, instead of an actual answer.

 

“Cancel your plans with Lykaios, if you’ve even still seeing her—” This said with a bit of a smirk; Auguste knew exactly how terrible Damen was at maintaining long term relationships— “and let’s go get wasted. Seven, at your place.”

 

“Uh,” Damen said, thinking of Laurent. “Sure.”

 

— —

 

Laurent was already home when Damen arrived, so that made things easier. As usual, he was in the kitchen, sitting at the same bar stool he always sat at, drinking a coffee that smelled better than coffee had any right to.

 

“Auguste is coming over in an hour,” Damen said by way of greeting. “He knows something’s up. He wants us to get drunk together.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What do you want me to do?” Laurent asked, fixing Damen with a look that made something in Damen’s stomach shift uncomfortably, and he had to remind himself sternly Laurent was asking about the Auguste situation, and nothing else.

 

“I don’t know,” Damen said.

 

Neither of them had had a stroke of inspiration by the time the takeout Damen called for arrived, and they ate in silence.

 

“I guess I’ll go upstairs,” Laurent said eventually, dumping his empty fried rice container in the trash and putting his coffee cup in the dishwasher.

 

He took his backpack, shoes, and coat upstairs with him. Damen heard the sound of a door shutting, followed by the quiet click of the lock turning.

 

Damen threw out his own empty takeout container, checked that the fridge had beer in it, and sat back down to wait for Auguste.

 

 

 

When Auguste arrived it was obvious he had already begun drinking. He pulled Damen into a hug as soon as he opened the door, and even if Damen hadn’t been able to smell the – was that vodka? – on him, the hug alone would have given it away. Sober Auguste didn’t hug.

 

Auguste had not brought the vodka with him, and Damen hoped it was not because he had drunk it all already. He dutifully put the beer Auguste had brought in the fridge, returning with a bottle for each of them.

 

“Cheers,” he said, with a tight smile.

 

Auguste’s smile was just as forced.

 

They didn’t talk much.

 

When the coffee table was littered with empty bottles, Damen rose, stretching his back, and stumbled off to the first floor bathroom. Surely it was fine to leave Auguste alone for a few minutes to take a leak, right?

 

In the bathroom, he could hear the pipes going upstairs - Laurent must be showering.

 

— —

 

You couldn’t wash anyone’s hand off you, or their eyes either. Laurent knew this by now. He didn’t take the hour long showers that he used to, during the trial, back when he still thought that somehow the entire thing could be washed off, washed away.

 

He no longer feared death by water, the droplets dragging at his skin one by one until they tore pieces of himself off and he watched himself, somehow disconnected, spiralling down the drain.

 

Showers were…better, now. Laurent still liked long showers, but they were closer to what a reasonable person meant by the phrase. And wasn’t that the test? Wasn’t that what everyone seemed to be repeating during the trial, what would a reasonable person have thought, have done, have known?

 

Laurent did not consider himself a reasonable person. During the trial he had come to realize that he had not thought, done, known the right things. For awhile he had wondered if this meant that there would be an acquittal. Surely the truth, that he was not and never had been a reasonable person, would come out, and after that it would be impossible to convict. Eventually, when it had become obvious that the verdict would swing the other way, the reasonable person still echoed in the back of his mind.

 

_Fear death by water._ He hadn’t known where that had come from, at the age of fourteen, and so as simple as that, he had feared it. It was a little silly, in retrospect: they had not lived near a large body of water of any kind. But later Laurent found where the little hint came from, wondered if it was a prediction of sorts. If even back then, _he_ had known that he was not going to get away with it much longer. Laurent hadn’t known. Permanent escape in any form had seemed impossible. There were only the small, daily escapes that sometimes worked and more often did not.

 

Laurent had never harboured ambitions of permanent escape of any kind. There was the drowned boy to think of, the one who had come before Laurent but who had been younger than him by a few years. He’d been found in the swimming pool of the country club the de Veres belonged to, floating in the deep end, obscenely bloated. Laurent had recognized his face, even discoloured and distorted. He’d seen him around their estate, knew what it meant already that a boy this age who had been at their house was now dead, by water.

 

Laurent closed his eyes. The conditioner was long since rinsed from his hair; there was no reason to stay in the shower any longer, but he couldn’t bring himself to get out quite yet. Something about showing up that stale, old fear.

 

The bathroom door banged open.

 

“Oh! Lykaios! Sorry love, would have gone in the other one but your boyfriend’s using that one.”

 

Laurent froze, recognizing the voice instantly. Auguste. Auguste was here, in the bathroom, andimprobably, thought he was Lykaios, who was not here. He giggled, trying to pitch his voice higher, hoping he sounded nervous.

 

“Just be a minute,” Auguste muttered, and Laurent heard a zipper, what might have been some more water-related noises, and then the sound of flushing, and the sink going.

 

“Must be getting serious if you’re staying over and showering here,” Auguste said, as if to himself.

 

“Mhmm,” Laurent replied, trying to sound feminine and non-committal and convinced he was failing on both fronts.

 

“Well, bye then,” Auguste said, and was gone.

 

— —

 

“Must be getting serious with whats her name,” Auguste said, throwing himself down on the sofa next to Damen.

 

“What?” Damen froze.

 

“Well if she’s staying over, using your shower…gonna pop the question soon?” Auguste elbowed him suggestively.

 

“No,” Damen said. “I’m planning on breaking up with her soon, actually.” Distract, distract, distract, he thought frantically. _He has to have seen Laurent in the shower, and miraculously somehow thinks it was Lykaios. Don’t ruin this._

 

That seemed to satisfy Auguste, who uncoordinatedly heaved himself to his feet to retrieve more beer from the fridge.

 

“I missed you this week, man,” Auguste said when he was halfway through his seventh beer of the night.

 

“I’ve been really busy,” Damen said carefully, setting down his drink, which was only his second. Auguste did not appear to have noticed that Damen was not keeping pace with him as he usually would. “Long lost relatives keep appearing out of the woodwork pretending to be surprised that they have no claim on the Berenger trust.”

 

“That’s stupid,” Auguste pronounced. “That should be open and shut. The will was very clear that the only beneficiary was his boyfriend, that Incel guy.”

 

“Ancel,” Damen corrected. “And yes, it was. But all of these people are being very difficult about it and I’m trying to sort it out without offending too many of them.”

 

The conversation veered into safer topics from there, and Damen relaxed a little. This wasn’t so bad. Maybe Auguste wasn’t even suspicious anymore! Everything could go back to normal. He drained the bottle he was holding and set it on the floor. Auguste was slouched comfortably on the sofa in a posture that reminded him of their college days.

 

“So, what about you? Are you seeing anyone?” Damen asked, feeling bold, but Auguste was already snoring.

 

— —

 

 

Laurent was thinking about the kind of coffee he wanted to make as he walked down the stairs, which he later blamed for why he did not notice the landmine in the living room until it was too late.

 

“Lolo?”

 

Laurent froze, one foot momentarily suspended between the last stair and the waxed wooden floor.

 

“Uh,” he choked out. “What. Why are you here.”

 

“Why are you here?” Auguste sat up and ran a hand through his hair, which was mashed down weirdly on one side, probably from sleeping on Damen’s sofa all night.

 

“I asked first,” Laurent said archly.

 

“Damen and I were drinking, and I guess I had a few more than I thought and fell asleep.” Auguste shrugged.

 

Laurent knew Auguste expected him to answer with his own explanation, but something felt off in his stomach, like his body couldn’t quite decide if he was angry at Auguste for turning up unexpectedly and finding out he was staying at Damen’s in such a stupid, silly, preventable way, or if he was disgusted to see his brother’s face, knowing that he was like him.

 

Disgust won.

 

“Fuck you,” Laurent said, and went into the kitchen to make a pour over.

 

But it was not his morning, or maybe it was never going to be that easy anyway, because Auguste dragged himself off the sofa and followed him into the kitchen. Laurent stood with his back to Auguste while he waited for the water to boil; he avoided eye contact with him as he pulled a glass funnel and an (organic, recycled) paper filter out of the cabinet and set them on top of a coffee mug.

 

There was an awkward moment where he had to open a cabinet that was directly behind Auguste to get out the grinder and a bag of beans, but Laurent started resolutely past Auguste’s head, refusing to look at him.

 

His usual seat at the end of the kitchen island put him too close to where Auguste was still leaning against the kitchen counter, so Laurent sat at the other end, thinking vicious thoughts about how Auguste could make even sitting down for his morning pour over wrong.

 

“So it wasn’t Lykaios that I walked in on in the shower last night, then,” Auguste said eventually.

 

It was not a question, and Laurent decided it didn’t need an answer.

 

“How long have you been here? Since the semester ended?”

 

Another thing that seemed pretty obvious, or that at least with a few minutes’ thought Auguste could probably work out for himself. Laurent turned his coffee mug around in a circle, then took a drink. Surely Damen would wake up sometime soon and come down here and get rid of him? All Laurent really had to do was ignore Auguste’s idiot questions until then.

 

Auguste was talking again, but this time Laurent couldn’t hear him. Something else had started happening in the background, some almost-human noise that made it impossible to pick Auguste’s words out of the jumble of sound in the air. After a few minutes the other sound started to crystallize: a podcast. Damen was awake somewhere in the house and had turned on a podcast, and was listening to someone explain how Burning Man worked.

 

The intruding noise identified, Laurent closed his eyes and drank his coffee. Underneath the podcast there was also the sound of water running, and the kind of morning shuffling-about noises that Laurent had come to recognize as Damen’s morning routine.

 

Auguste was talking again, but it didn’t matter because that one slightly-off step had just creaked, and that meant Damen was coming downstairs and would fix everything.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are! Thank you for reading, and now with no further ado, let's get to it...

Damen’s solution, it turned out, was to evict both of them from his townhouse, rubbing his temples and claiming a migraine, and then to lock the door.

 

Laurent kicked at the sparse snow that had fallen the night before, standing on Damen’s front porch with his back to Auguste.

 

“Lolo—,” Auguste began, and Laurent shook his head.

 

“Don’t.”

 

Laurent stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked at the snow some more. The pattern it had settled into after his first kicks was offensive, somehow.

 

“Why didn’t you just tell me you wanted to stay with Damen?” Auguste asked. “It’s fine if you two are dating.”

 

“We’re not dating,” Laurent said, before he could stop himself. The urge to contradict Auguste was too strong to resist.

 

“Then why—”

 

“I said, don’t!” Laurent gave up on attempting to identify what was annoying about the snow piles and stepped off the porch. “Leave me alone.”

 

He stalked off in the direction of the high street, which was not ideal because it was also the direction of Auguste’s apartment, but the other way lay only residential streets for several miles, and Laurent wanted another coffee. He hoped he was walking fast enough that he could get around a few corners before Auguste caught up with him, so he could duck into one of the four coffee shops in the area, and if he was lucky enough to get a seat near the back off the store, hide from Auguste for at least a few hours while he rallied his thoughts and made a new battle plan.

 

His thighs were burning after a few blocks, but he didn’t dare slow his pace. Auguste worked out more than he did, and could probably outrun him if it came to that. He needed the distance and the corners between them, so that Auguste would have to stop and consider at each turn which way Laurent might have gone, so that Auguste might possibly choose wrong and give Laurent some more time.

 

By midmorning on a Saturday most of the coffee shops and cafes were starting to fill up, and Laurent passed by the first one that he saw. With a line out the door and people who had already gotten their drinks leaning against the high concrete bar that was visible from the street, he doubted there would be a seat for him in the back.

 

The second one looked more promising - fewer people and it sold those pastries that Damen had brought home the other night. Laurent became aware that he had not actually eaten yet today, and ducked inside.

 

The lighting was not as caffeine-bright as the other place, which helped. Laurent draped his coat across the single chair in front of a tiny table at the back of the coffee shop, pulled his notebook and pen from his pocket, and set them in front of his jacket. Maybe it would look like he had just stepped out to use the restroom, and deter anyone from taking his hiding place.

 

The menu was sparse, which Laurent respected. None of this extra whip half soy splenda and sugar mix nonsense that any self respecting barista should have the good sense not to make.

 

The man who ended up sitting at the next table over from Laurent’s huffed as he slid into the seat with what was obviously leftover performative anger from his altercation with the barista, who had apparently missed a step in making his extra whip half soy splenda and sugar nonsense drink. Laurent rolled his eyes and angled his shoulder so that he was blocking his notebook from the man’s view. An idiot who would order something like that in the first place, never mind getting upset about it, was probably the same kind of idiot who would try to read what he was writing and talk to him about it when obviously no sane person would want that. He uncapped his pen, and turned to a blank page.

 

 

— —

 

Auguste didn’t bother trying to follow Laurent. What could he say if he caught up with him? Laurent had denied the only reason for him to be at Damen’s place that made any sense at all.

 

His back hurt after spending the night on Damen’s couch. This weekend was one of the rare ones in which he did not have a pile of work waiting on the coffee table, and he was beginning to regret spending the night away from home. Stretching out in his warm bed, maybe with Nick there…yes, that was definitely a better way to spend the rest of a Saturday morning than chasing after Laurent, trying to get him to tell Auguste what was so mad about. Like that had ever worked anyway - Laurent would tell him when he was ready, or more likely, given the way this morning had gone, never.

 

He was a little worried that he would run into Laurent on his way back to his apartment, since it was the same direction Laurent had gone, but was relieved not to see him.

 

 

 

At first Auguste thought Nicaise was out. The lights were off in the living room; the blinds on the high glass doors that lead to the balcony drawn.

 

There was a flicker of light coming from under the closed bedroom door.

 

“I had plans for last night,” Nicaise said, when Auguste opened the door. The pout in his voice was real, not the affected one that he often put on, and Auguste knew he’d really screwed up. Nicaise’s arms were crossed over the chest of his long, tightly cinched robe.

 

“I’m sorry, Nick,” he said. “I…ended up drinking a little more than I’d planned to and stayed over at Damen’s.”

 

“I figured,” Nicaise said, flopping backwards onto the bed and staring at the ceiling. The sulkiness had drained from his voice, leaving something more raw and fearful behind. “I just — you know I was in witness protection all through high school. I kept thinking _he_ had somehow gotten out, and gotten to you. Hired someone to do a hit-and-run, or something.”

 

“Well,” Auguste said, sitting down beside Nicaise, “at the very least, he has no money to hire someone to do that, because Laurent and I have complete control of the family estate.”

 

Laurent. Auguste had not meant to bring him up; he suspected Nicaise didn’t like it when he did. Bringing up Laurent brought up memories related to Laurent, ones that Auguste suspected Nicaise tried to avoid thinking about.

 

“But mostly,” Auguste continued, “he’s in prison, for life, with no chance of parole. I’m safe.” By now Auguste knew better than to say what he really wanted to say, which was _you’re safe_. Nicaise had shown him in past conversations that he did not appreciate it.

 

“I know that, like, rationally.” Auguste could hear the eye roll in Nicaise’s voice.

 

“Why don’t you come with me, next time?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

They were both silent for awhile. Auguste let his hands wander to Nicaise’s hair, combing gently through the short curls.

 

“I had plans for last night,” Nicaise said.

 

Auguste paused. “Oh?”

 

“Maybe I won’t tell you,” Nicaise said, a hint of teasing in his voice. “Maybe you have to figure it out.”

 

“Give me a hint,” Auguste said, delighted.

 

“Not that you deserve it in the slightest, but here,” Nicaise said, running a hand down his thigh. “I’m wearing something new, but I won’t tell you what.”

 

“I’ll have to investigate, then,” Auguste breathed, and Nicaise grinned.

 

 

— —

 

Damen slammed the front door shut and turned back to the kitchen. If Auguste and Laurent were going to have this fight on his porch, he didn’t want to see it. They were both in the wrong, he thought, dumping out a filter full of wet coffee grounds into the garbage disposal. But either of the deVere brothers admitting fault? Ha, he thought. Unlikely. He took his coffee into the living room and turned the podcast he had been listening to back on.

 

His phone dinged — Lykaios.

 

Lykaios

I don’t think this is going to work out. I had fun with you, but I’m looking for something a little bit more serious.

 

Damen’s thumbs hovered above the screen. This was….almost too convenient. Could Laurent be trolling him, spoofing Lykaios’ phone number somehow?

 

Me

Ok

 

He felt like a dick, but couldn’t think of anything else to say.

 

Lykaios

I really did have fun! I’m not just saying that to soothe your delicate male ego.

 

Me

I did too ;)

 

Lykaios

Okay, well…bye, Damen. Good luck with your man.

 

 

He’s not my man, Damen typed, and then deleted the words.

 

He was about to drop his phone when it buzzed again.

 

Laurent

I’m going over to Auguste’s.

 

Me

Good.

 

Laurent

and….thanks. I guess. For letting me stay with you while I got my head on straight.

 

Me

You, straight? :P

 

 _What are you doing what are you doing this is a bad idea_ ran through Damen’s head, but he’d already hit send.

 

Laurent

Lmao

 

Three dots appeared below Laurent’s last message, then disappeared. Disappointed, Damen watched the dots reappear and then vanish another time before setting his phone down. Laurent must not be interested, or maybe he had misjudged the mood.

 

At least they were finally going to talk. That had to be good, Damen reasoned. Auguste could clear everything up, and maybe Laurent would finally calm down about his brother dating another adult.

— —

 

Auguste had locked his apartment door, but Laurent still had a key. He hadn’t been able to make himself throw that away, reasoning that it could be useful in searching for evidence. Laurent hurried through the entryway into the living room, where the lights were all off; he wondered at first if Auguste was out. Well, he didn’t have anywhere else to be. Laurent flopped down on the sofa to wait.

 

He had not been able to see it from just inside the front door, but sitting on the sofa Laurent noticed a glimmer of light escaping from underneath Auguste’s closed bedroom door.

 

A glimmer of light, and the faint, but unmistakable sound of a bed frame hitting a wall. Repeatedly.

 

Before he could decide whether to leave, pretend he hadn’t heard anything, and never speak to Auguste again or to slam the door open and confront him, the noise stopped.

 

“Did you hear something?” Nicaise d’Arles’ voice, from behind the door. It had been four years since Laurent had heard that voice, and it was deeper now, but he would know it anywhere.

 

So it was true, then. Auguste was like their uncle, and probably Laurent was too. He put his head in his hands.

 

“What?” Auguste sounded a little disoriented.

 

“I think I heard something,” Nicaise repeated. “I’m sure I did.”

 

“Who cares?”

 

“I’m going to go check.”

 

“Wait, what? No, let’s keep going. We can check afterwards,” Auguste said.

 

There was a creak of furniture, probably from Nicaise getting up. Or making Auguste get up. Either way, Laurent was completely fucked. There was no way to get out of the apartment now in the probably five seconds it would take Auguste to get from the bed to his bedroom door.

 

While he was still panicking about what to do, the door opened, and then Nicaise d’Arles was standing in front of him, wearing a black corset and black heels.

 

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Nicaise asked, glaring down at Laurent. He was a lot taller than he’d been the last time Laurent had seen him, and the shape of his face had changed.

 

“Don’t leave the door unlocked while my brother’s fucking you,” Laurent spat out.

 

Nicaise laughed. “Is that what you think is happening here?”

 

Something about what Nicaise had just said did not make sense, but Laurent’s brain was still too fuzzy with leftover panic over being caught to figure it out.

 

“Auguste! Get the fuck out here and talk to me,” Laurent yelled.

 

Nicaise smirked. “He’s a little tied up right now.”

 

“Nic, don’t tease him.” Auguste appeared in the doorway, backlit by whatever lamps were on in the bedroom. His hair was half-down in a messy bun, and he was tying a robe around himself.

 

“But he makes it so easy,” Nicaise said with a pout.

 

“Fuck you.” Laurent wasn’t sure who he was angrier at now, Nicaise, or Auguste.

 

Auguste sighed. “Nick, why don’t you go put something else on and join us in a few minutes? Laurent and I are apparently going to talk now, even though he’s been avoiding me and lying to me for weeks.” This last bit was said with a glare at Laurent.

 

With a grumble, Nicaise disappeared into the bedroom.

 

“Why are you here, Laurent?” Auguste sat down on the sofa, a measured distance away from Laurent.

 

“I wanted to know if it was true,” Laurent said. His voice was very quiet. “At first I thought it couldn’t be, you couldn’t be like him, but then I was afraid it was and I didn’t want to know.”

 

“And then it ate at you, and you had to know,” Auguste said slowly. “I think I understand.”

 

“How?” Laurent looked at Auguste.

 

“You haven’t seen him since before he went into witness protection, and the last picture of him you have in your mind was of a fragile fourteen year old,” Auguste said. “Of course you’d still see him that way. But Laurent, none of us are the people we were four years ago.”

 

“How can you see anything else, though?” Laurent’s voice was a whisper now.

 

“At first I didn’t,” Auguste said. “And I’m pretty sure he could tell. But as we got to know each other, something changed. It wasn’t fast. I don’t want to make it sound like it was easy. Is easy. Sometimes I still…” Auguste trailed off.

 

“But that’s not the point. It’s not just Nicaise. It’s you and me and Damen too. None of us are the same as we were then.”

 

“I can’t see it, sometimes.” Then: “he sent me a picture that was meant for you.”

 

“Oh hell,” Auguste groaned. “How bad was it?”

 

Laurent pulled his phone from his hoodie pocket, unlocked it, and found the screenshots. He held the phone up for Auguste to see. “Here.”

 

“Okay, that could have been a lot worse,” Auguste admitted. “But I can see why that would be upsetting to get.”

 

“I thought you were like him,” Laurent said. “During…you know. During. I would always think never Auguste. That you would never. And then it looked like you had.”

 

“Lolo—”

 

“But I get it now,” Laurent continued. “I mean, I wish I hadn’t basically walked in on you two having sex. But I get it.”

 

“I really want to hug you right now,” Auguste said.

 

“Yeah. Uh, same.”

 

— —

 

“There are about a million ways this could go horribly wrong,” Nicaise said, turning in the mirror to look over his outfit.

 

“Dinner with Damen and Laurent? Nah,” Auguste said, adjusting his bow tie. “It’ll be fine. Damen’s chill and Laurent already knows. What’s to worry about?”

 

“I guess,” Nicaise said. “I sort of want to go over there early, maybe help cook? It might make things easier.”

 

“Sure,” Auguste said. He doubted that anything would make it easier other than time, but helping Laurent and Damen cook wasn’t a bad idea. He didn’t have much faith in Laurent’s cooking abilities outside of making coffee.

 

— —

 

“Don’t tell Auguste,” Laurent blurted out, lying next to Damen, his brain swimming with endorphins.

 

“Oh, no. We’re not doing that,” Damen said. He propped himself up on his elbows and leaned over Laurent’s face to peer into his eyes. “Did you not learn anything from this whole Nicaise thing? He will definitely be fine with us being together.”

 

Laurent was silent, and something unpleasant clunked into place in Damen’s mind.

 

“Unless…you don’t want us to be together. Unless this was a one-time thing?” Damen didn’t bother trying to hide the hesitation in his voice, the disappointment.

 

“Don’t be dense. Of course we’re together,” Laurent said. “I just…when I left his place he said oh, are you going to go hook up with Damen now? And I said no and he’s going to be so smug if he finds out.”

 

“If who finds out?” Auguste asked, stepping through the open bedroom door.

 

Laurent groaned and tried to pull the duvet over his face. “Why are you here? You are not supposed to be here for two more hours!”

 

“Oh my god, Laurent?” Nicaise said, poking his head through the door and peering over Auguste’s shoulder. “You’ve been fucking Damen this entire time? You hypocrite!” Nicaise sounded delighted.

 

“No! Damen, why do you never lock your damn house?”

 

Damen cleared his throat. “I would really like to not be naked in front of all of you,” he said. “And this is a safe part of town.”

 

“Come on Nick, let’s wait downstairs,” Auguste said, shooing Nicaise out the door.

 

“That is not how I had pictured that going at all,” Laurent said, once they had left.

 

“I didn’t tell Auguste,” Damen pointed out.

 

“Great. Congratulations,” Laurent said flatly.


End file.
